Chapter 1: Prologue

Hey hey people, Author here. Welcome to this weird-ass fanfiction that I've written.

Before we get to the actual story, I'd like to say a couple things. First, honestly, I don't know what I'm doing with this one. Some of you might like it, some of you might hate it, some of you will just get bored of it, and it's okay, people have different tastes. This story will mostly focus on the rise of MC, but you will rarely ever see his POV, at least at the earlier chapters. Unlike my other fanfic(the Celtigar one) this one will be a bit… self indulgent. It will be unrealistic, but hopefully, not too unrealistic that it just throws you off the story. Yes, there will be plot armor, because at the end of the day, I just want to write good ol' power fantasy in this one lol.

Second, as I learned in my previous fanfic, hopefully, this one will be a short one. My aim is around 30 - 40 chapters, maybe a bit shorter, but we'll see. I have a habit of making my characters and narrators yap a lot you see, and coupled that with my past use of AI, there's a lot of unnecessary words in that fanfic. I will try to avoid that in this one, as in not making unnecessary scenes, not to prolong descriptions, and overuse of AI to make words a lot more 'old-timey'. If you think it's still too much, just comment on it, don't be a dick about it though.

Third, as for the plot of the story itself, before you all get confused when reading, technically, MC is the founding titan of this fanfic, which means he'll get to create titan forms as he sees fit. I don't know how many forms he'll make yet, but it's definitely less than the nine titans in AOT.

Alright, enough of the talking, below is the actual story :)

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Rook's Rest burns. Screams of agony and terror reverberate across Lord Staunton's lands. Fertile grain fields lie torched, villages razed, and chaos reigns. The land's lord stood no chance against the might of the Targaryen host; the smallfolk even less. Lord Staunton had barred his castle gates after learning that Duskendale had fallen, and the Rosbys and Stokeworths had bent the knee to King Aegon II. A siege began. Though sworn to Queen Rhaenyra, he knew his position was untenable. Supplies dwindled, yet the dragons had yet to appear. Two choices remained: bend the knee to the Greens or beg the queen for aid. He chose the latter. Yet no reinforcements came. Now, he watched helplessly as the Targaryen army ravaged his lands.

His men-at-arms fared worse. Constant volleys of catapult fire and arrows pinned them down; one misstep meant an arrow through a limb. A grim atmosphere pervaded the walls. A mere few hundred men faced three thousand. The walls' safety was a cruel illusion, for they knew the dragons lingered, somewhere.

Nine days had passed since the siege began, with no sign of retreat from the attackers and no aid from Dragonstone. Morale and supplies were at their nadir. Starvation loomed. Despair hung thick, as soldiers slumped against the stony walls, faces etched with hopelessness. All but one.

A young man sat in a tower, peering through a narrow window overlooking King Aegon's forces. He watched as catapults loaded with gigantic boulders hurled them skyward, crashing into the castle walls, demolishing buildings below. He showed no fear. His emerald eyes remained fixed on the attacking forces or the sky, calm and unflinching.

Amidst the chaos, this man… took time for himself. He pondered on his choices that led here. Born a commoner, one of the smallfolk, nearly powerless before the nobles' gaze. Yet… he was different, a reincarnated soul. This world, to him, should have been a fiction, the creation of a writer's mind. Yet here it was, reality. At first, he was… terrified. How could he survive this brutal realm? If he died again, would he reincarnate once more? He did not know. But a discovery altered his perspective. Initially, it was the startling speed of his regeneration after injury, but soon, he uncovered much more...

In his dreams, he awoke atop a cold desert, a place bereft of brightness save a thin thread of light stretching from the distant sky. Recognition was slow, but steadily dawned. Though slightly altered, missing the sky's luminous threads, it was The Path, where Ymir had shaped her children's forms, the Titans. A strange sight indeed this world, a place that he wasn't supposed to be seeing, and yet here it was. But in that moment, he understood this place was to be his and his children's. Ymir, the Titan founder in her universe, that mantle is his in this one.

One revelation led to another, and he saw the potential within himself, the power he wielded. Dreams of legacy nearly within reach, a bloodline destined to rule. While the Targaryens had dragons, his offspring would be Titans. But as a commoner, he needed a monumental leap to ascend to nobility.

Now, he involved himself amidst this siege, a battle that is meant to be a trap. The Dance of the Dragons, the Targaryen civil war, a gold mine in his eyes. This is the leap he needs.

Suddenly, from the sky, a piercing roar shattered the chaotic stillness. It was so fierce that some of the garrison men clutched their ears in agony. From the clouds, Meleys emerged, plummeting through the sky with ferocious speed, descending upon the enemy camps before they could muster a defense. The Red Queen unleashed torrents of crimson flame, so blinding that the garrison was momentarily struck blind. 

The great beast ravaged the encampments, leaving naught but ash and charred bones in her wake. The verdant fields were no more; only scorched earth remained. Now, it was the Targaryen host's turn to scream and wail in torment.

The garrison erupted in exultation, the sight of the red dragon igniting a flicker of hope in this depressing bastion. Cheers resounded, tears flowed, helmets were doffed as if the battle had already been won. 

But the Greens, swift in their response, moved under the stern command of Ser Criston Cole, Hand of the King. This turmoil was his doing, after all. The soldiers rallied, manning scorpions and cranking them skyward as the she-dragon arced upwards, preparing another fiery assault. Bows and crossbows filled the air, arrows and bolts drawn, eyes fixed solely on the beast. A deluge of projectiles soared, casting shadows across the battlefield.

Yet, to fell a seasoned rider and dragon requires more than mere arrows. Meleys, with a grace unmatched, evaded the scorpion bolts, her movements a dance against the sunlit backdrop. The arrows glanced harmlessly off her scales. Princess Rhaenys, astride her, wove through the onslaught, shielded by her dragon's mighty form.

Reality soon shattered the garrison's illusion of safety. Stray arrows rained down upon the walls anew; men fell, some perished instantly. The survivors scrambled for cover, huddling in towers, behind walls, shields raised against the deadly hail. The young man's perch now crowded, yet he remained, eyes scanning the sky. Not just watching Meleys, but the farthest reaches of his vision.

Meleys continued to rain down dragonfire upon the attacking army, albeit a bit careful due to the threat of the scorpions and other projectiles. It was not even minutes that they had already taken great losses, charred remains scattered across the burned field, the sound of wailing men in pain from scorched skin echoing throughout the land. In the span of a short amount of time, eight hundred men perished, while the rest had to watch their gruesome death, demoralized.

It was then that The Hand sprung his trap. Two thunderous roars echoed through the air, heralding the arrival of Vhagar, the largest of all living dragons, and Sunfyre the Golden. King Aegon himself had entered the fray, alongside his brother Aemond One-Eye. In an instant, the board was overturned; despair once more filled the hearts of the garrison men. There was no way the Red Queen could defeat two dragons, especially with Vhagar, a living behemoth, among them.

Sunfyre struck first, as the young dragon was much faster than the old Vhagar, diving claws-first toward Meleys' neck. But the she-dragon, more seasoned than the young golden beast, twisted away, soaring skyward to gain altitude. Higher and higher they climbed, beyond the reach of mortal men, battling a thousand feet above the field with fiery breaths that blinded those below.

In that very moment, a young man who had witnessed it all began to move. Rising from his seat, he ignored his despairing comrades, shoving them aside as he exited the tower. Now standing atop the wall, his gaze was fixed on the distant sky, where the behemoth Vhagar approached the battling dragons. This was it, it was his chance.

And so, after days of pondering a hypothetical leap, he took a literal one, jumping from the wall's edge to the ground below. The garrison men saw him and shouted, thinking he preferred death by fall over dragonfire. Yet the wall was only sixty feet high; such a jump wouldn't kill him outright—he'd suffer first.

But he did not die, nor did he injure himself. Instead, something rather... supernatural happened, right before the eyes of those garrison men. Sparks of lightning enveloped the young man, and steam burst from his body mid-air. It was so bright that the men hid behind the wall to shield their eyes. Moments later, they felt a small earthquake shaking the ground, as if a dragon had fallen from the sky. But it was no dragon; it was something else.

A giant creature appeared before them. Bipedal, almost human-like, but with bone-white skin and parts that looked like exposed flesh on its side. It seemed the bone-white skin was not flesh at all but armor. Its head was partially covered in this armor, with its eyes the most exposed. When it stood, it was nearly as tall as the wall, around fifty feet in height. Confusion swept through the garrison men. Some aimed their crossbows, some even fired, but the bolts simply bounced off the creature's thick skin.

The creature turned to the shooter and stared, its haunting emerald eyes striking deep fear within the men. They froze, unsure of what this creature intended. Did it originate from the young man earlier?

Their thoughts vanished as the titan turned its gaze skyward, focusing on Vhagar, who was still trying to reach the other two dragons. As it did so, its palms opened. From one palm, a long arrow began to grow, and from the other, a bow, both formed from the same thin bone-like armor that covered its body. It was a strange sight, this creature growing a weapon. Once fully shaped, the bow and arrow detached, now fully functional.

The titan drew the bow with an arrow, its string so strong that even the titan seemed to struggle in the pull. But when it had done so, it aimed towards Vhagar. The dragon was far, far away, yet still, it aimed. Finally, after moments of stillness, the titan released the string. The arrow was launched, the speed so great that a crack like thunder burst forth, so loud it made the men's ears bleed.

It traveled fast, impossibly fast. In mere moments, the titan saw the dragon react. The arrow struck her side; the titan could see the white shaft protruding, though it seemed not deep enough to do substantial harm. Yet the dragon felt the pain and roared its fury into the sky.

Then, a bolt from a scorpion pierced the titan's stomach, its tip buried deep in the flesh, though it didn't go through the other side. The titan turned to the Targaryen host, pulling the bolt free almost easily, steam hissing from the wound as it healed swiftly. The titan's eyes rose again to the dragon above. Meleys and Sunfyre clashed, but Vhagar's wrath now turned towards the titan. The dragon veered from the aerial battle, diving towards the titan.

Seeing this, the titan dropped its bow, taking a runner's stance. Using its hands as a shield, the titan stretched its massive muscles and dashed across the field, each step creating small quakes. From the garrison, men could clearly see the prints it left behind.

The titan charged towards the Greens' encampment. The sight of a colossal being running at them struck deep fear into the combatants. Confusion reigned; none knew where this creature had come from or why it attacked. The camp's temporary calm, granted by the king and prince's arrival, was shattered. Ser Criston Cole, on his steed, shouted at the men arming the scorpions to fire, but it was too late.

The titan arrived and, with a mighty kick, swept through the scorpions' ranks, destroying them utterly. The sellswords scattered, fleeing for their lives, knowing it was futile to fight back; such a monster could not be felled by swords and shields alone.

The rampage continued, but Vhagar was closing in. The great beast descended, ready to unleash her ancient flame upon the titan. And yet, the titan stood still, its eyes almost bored. As Vhagar neared, the titan saw Sunfyre falling, its neck bitten off by Meleys. 

This is it. The young man had taken the leap he wanted.

At last, the titan looked down, its eyes lifeless. Vhagar prepared her breath, but then, a bolt of lightning struck from the sky, bright light blinded the she-dragon, and the field was engulfed in destruction.